


Ruins and Robots!

by SaltysScribbles



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: WHAT IF I MADE MY OBSESSIONS GET MARRIED
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29988684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltysScribbles/pseuds/SaltysScribbles
Summary: A set of drabbles, in no particular order, set in a world where the Horizon setting runs on D&D rules, and magic and science exist side by side, and hand in hand.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

The Eleventh Hour are fighting a losing battle.

Elisabet has struck down more elementals than she can count, put out the burning end of her staff at least six times. Exhausted so much of her strength, and so much of her magical energy, just keeping her crew from charring into cinders under the onslaught.

And still, they're coming, advancing through the brush with single-minded abandon, leaving burning scrub and drifting ash in their wake. Consuming everything within their reach. Every _one._

Something bumps up against her back, and she whirls to find Patrick, one cheek scorched badly, spellbook clutched in his unburned hand. He gives her something approximating a quick smile, and she gives him her best effort in return.

"How are we doing?"

His grimace tells her everything she needs to know.

"As well as you can imagine. I believe Mr. Tate has exhausted his arcane legerdemain and resorted to short blades."

It takes her a moment to wrap her head around the idea (and admittedly, an additional moment to scatter the essence of another elemental with a barked shout of radiant force.)

"He's... _stabbing_ the _fire_? Is it... I mean, is it... _working_?"

Patrick shoots a quick glance across the burning field, beyond the range of Elisabet's sight. His face, when he looks back, is tinged with sympathy.

"It appears to be... mutually painful?"

She can only imagine.

This is bad. And rapidly getting worse. The main event hasn't even begun; the Firebird is still making its way toward them.

The elder elemental's wings batter the sky as it continues its forward sweep. Every flap sends fire scattering to the ground below, setting the patchy woods ablaze. Birthing new, minor elementals to add to the onslaught sapping their strength.

This is really, really bad.

"Calderex isn't even here, yet, and things are... catastrophic. I don't think we can stop its advance. Not without help. Ten minutes... can you get a circle down before we get burned to a crisp?"

Patrick grimaces again, this time, with real sorrow.

"I've... exhausted my arcane legerdemain, as well."

It's not what she wants to hear, and she suppresses a groan. Nearly the entire horizon is ablaze, now. And Calderex keeps coming at its sedate pace, without a care for the landscape beneath it. An inexorable force of nature. One that will swallow them in its wake if she can't do something.

This is really, really, really bad.

Elisabet runs through their options for a moment; Patrick can't teleport them away. And her own energy is waning. The others will be faring no better, after a lengthy engagement. They're _stuck_. And they can't outrun the elder elemental's flames, even if they can remove themselves from its direct path.

Which leaves just one more option to consider.

It doesn't usually work, with her patron in the state that she is. But... what other choice is there?

She reaches beneath her armor and pulls out her holy symbol. The edges dig into her palm as she clasps it, even through the leather of her gloves.

_GAIA?_

There's a momentary pause, and then, the divine spirit's presence fills her mind.

_**I am with you.** _

_Can you get us out of here?_

She senses, rather than hears, GAIA's apologetic negative.

**_No. The elemental's presence has disrupted the integrity of planar connections, and in my current state, I am not strong enough to overcome it._ **

It's not the answer she was hoping for. Again. But it's... not the end of the line. Not yet. She flicks her eyes between the oncoming Firebird and the scrubby copse behind them, as yet untouched by the flames.

_Then can you shield the grove until it moves on?_

There's a moment's hesitation, and then, an affirmative.

_**That, I believe I can do. But it will require the use of your physical form as a conduit for my power.** _

GAIA's tone suggests that she's not going to like the results. But she doesn't have time to ponder that, now.

Even though it's wholly unnecessary, she nods.

_Do it._

Dropping the symbol, and letting it fall over her breastplate this time, she cups her hands to her mouth. Her voice booms out over the chaos, three times as loud as her throat will allow.

"Everyone! Into the trees! I've got... I might have something!"

It's all they need to hear; heads snap up all across the battlefield as her teammates shout affirmations. Nod. Begin pushing their way back toward the woods, extinguishing flames and snuffing out elementals as they go.

They can all see the way the wind is blowing. And she's hauled the Eleventh Hour out of enough scrapes with "might have something" ideas to have earned their trust.

When she's certain that everyone has retreated in among the boughs, she drags the end of the staff through the dirt, sketching a broad ring around the group, and lining it with drawn-in glyphs, per the instructions GAIA whispers in her ear.

The last, she plants her feet in the center of the final sigil, checking her positioning, before calling back to her team.

"All right... no matter what you hear, or see, do NOT leave the circle. It's the only way this is going to work."

There's a chorus of hesitant assent from behind her. For now, she'll have to trust that it's enough.

Winding the holy symbol's chain around her hands, binding them to the staff, she plants its end in the ground, just inside of the sigil's lines. Energy gathers in the clouds above, crackling like verdant lightning, seeking out the like power building behind her sternum. 

_**This is going to hurt**_ , GAIA warns.

It does.

A _lot_.

\-- The air still reeks of ash and char when she comes to.

But there's a clearness to it that's soothing on her scorched throat, and weak sunlight, untouched by lurid flames, colors the backs of her eyelids.

_**The flame spirit has passed on to the west**_ , whispers GAIA in the back of her mind. She sounds as exhausted as Elisabet feels.

But that's not her primary concern right now.

_The others...?_

Her answer comes in the form of a heavily padded hand coming to rest gently against her neck. Although how it can feel for a pulse under the swathing of bandages is beyond her.

"I don't want to alarm you all," says the voice of Travis Tate from somewhere above her head, "but I think... our fearless leader might... be dead?"

Cracking an eye open, she bares her teeth in as wide a half-grin as her blistered cheek will allow.

"Like the _Hells_ she is."

And the chorus of whoops and sighs of relief from behind her makes every ounce of the agony _worth_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Divine Intervention works... for once.


	2. Chapter 2

She can remember having come here as a child, with her mother, before the adventuring life had swept her up and tossed her into the middle of the Claw-Back, and again, in the brief retirement period she'd managed to enjoy before the current crisis had hit.

Back then, it had been a paradise; shimmering blue water, tall pine forests all around, and a lovely view of snow-capped mountains across the lake's surface. Now, it's... less than beautiful, the lake choked with ash, and the greenery long gone, stripped by acid rain and atmospheric toxins.

The view of the mountains is still nice, at least.

_It's a decent place to die, I guess,_ Elisabet thinks wryly _, as far as apocalyptic hellscapes go._

**_You are_** **not** _ **going to die**_ , GAIA insists. Her tone is firm, and a little exasperated. ** _I will_** **not** _ **let that happen.**_

Elisabet can only smile sadly at that; years of partnership, and the divine spirit still fails to grasp some of the basic differences between herself, and humanity.

_Yes, I am. I was going to the moment I left the facility. You know that just as well as I do. And you_ **_know_ ** _that neither of us can stop it. Not with the atmosphere out here the way it is, and the limited charge on these purifying runes._

Pulling the holy symbol from beneath the armor, letting it rest in the open over her heart, she pulls her staff free of the little crater in the dirt that she's shoved it into, taking it up in both hands. The Swarm is a dark line on the horizon, drawing ever closer with each passing heartbeat.

_I'll delay them as long as I can with what time I have. With luck, I can buy the others the breathing room they need to complete the seal. Once that's finished, you can take care of things. You don't need me, with the mainframe coming online. Not anymore._

She can sense GAIA's disapproval, but the spirit doesn't answer, for the time being. Instead, she opens the conduit between them one last time, linking divine power to mortal spark, flooding her body with strength. 

"All right," Elisabet murmurs, to no one in particular, sending a charge of magic down the length of her staff, igniting the end with a blaze of green energy, "once more unto the breach, dear friend. Once more, before the end."

She tries.

She really does.

She spends everything she has, shaking the ground around them, raining fire and radiant light down on their heads. Throwing fistfuls of divine power streaking toward them, and seeding the area with celestial spirits that rend and tear at their dark armor. Patching herself up as she goes, stilling shaking limbs and sealing wounds. Willing herself to _persist_.

It's all fruitless, of course; for every one that falls, two more take their place. For every one that she engages, even more do their damndest to just slip past her. She counts the time bought in minutes. And then in seconds, as her power dwindles. And it ultimately leads to the conclusion that she's known has been coming from the start.

It comes almost anticlimactically; exhausted, reeling, searching for what tricks she still has left to throw at the onrushing swarm, she doesn't see the tail-strike until it's already carving up her side, and knocking her into the dirt. Her helm goes flying off, bouncing away over the hard-packed ground.

It hurts like hell, of course, the spiked tip scratching into her through both plate and underlayer. But more importantly, the strike carves straight through the rune that keeps the armor supplied with air, transmuting the toxic atmosphere into something more breathable. The magic sputters. Flickers. Begins to die entirely.

Unburdened by her assault, unable to see her as anything other than an obstacle, with the concealing runes still in place, the Swarm begins its advance anew, flowing around her in a wave of skittering metal feet and clacking limbs, as if she doesn't even exist.

It's... a final insult added to injury, and if she had the air, she might have laughed bitterly at it; it's already getting hard to catch her breath.

Leaning forward on her elbows and pressing her forehead to the ground, she reaches out for GAIA's presence one last time.

_This is it. I'm... sorry. I wish things could be different, but... it was always going to end like this._

She expects sorrow from the spirit. Mourning. Anger at her, even, wouldn't be out of place.

What she gets instead is _determination_.

**_No. Open the pouch._ **

It takes Elisabet a moment to register what she's talking about. But she does eventually remember; the globe-shaped pouch that she'd been gifted before leaving the facility... she'd nearly forgotten it in the rush of things. It's still right where she'd attached it to her belt before setting out.

With clumsy fingers, she pulls it free and snaps open the clasp. Something _puffs_ out of it, straight into her face, and she gasps it in despite herself, taking a thin, stinging lungful of the remaining oxygen and struggling not to cough the precious air back out.

_What... is this!?_

GAIA projects a soothing feeling into her mind, one that brings to mind the sighing of waves on a shore, or the gentle drift of snow on a sunny morning.

_**A contingency plan. The last thing that I can do for you before assuming my duties.** _

The need to inhale is rapidly fading. As is everything else. The strength goes out of her arms abruptly, and she collapses into the dust, feeling leaden all over.

_What did... you..._

The spirit's presence wraps around her like a warm blanket, easing the aches and pains of battle, and weighing down her eyelids in a way that she no longer has the will to fight against.

**_It will take time,_** GAIA whispers, from what seems like a long way off, _**and effort. But I will see you again. Until then, my darling... sleep.**_

The blasted landscape vanishes as her eyes slip shut, and the breath freezes in her lungs, halfway through an exhale. She's vaguely aware that she should be afraid. But it's... hard to feel anything but _drowsy_ , especially with the warmth of GAIA's love enshrouding her.

_If this is death_ , she thinks, muzzily, _it's... not so bad._

And then she doesn't think anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imprisonment is a hell of a drug


	3. Chapter 3

She can't stop thinking about the tree.

The house is quiet, now, and the moon is well on its way toward the peak of the sky. Time for little girls to be getting some sleep, her mother would say. But the image of the flames, climbing into the branches, her memories of horror, of embarrassment and shame, keep her awake long past what should have been her bedtime.

Finally, she can stand it no longer; wrapping her blanket around her shoulders and folding Barnaby, her constant companion, into the crook of her arm, she creeps down the stairs, tiptoeing past the door to her mother's room with special care, and out the kitchen door.

Even this late into spring, there's a chill in the air, and while there's no snow to trouble her bare feet, she still finds herself grateful for the foresight of the blanket cape. Bit by bit, she picks her way across the yard to the burned remains of the pine.

Her throat tightens at the sight, at the memory of tiny, charred corpses, now thankfully buried, and of her mother's hands on her face. Making her way carefully into the debris field surrounding the ring of scorched grass at the tree's base, she stoops to pick up a piece of blackened bark, turning it over and plucking off a bead of resin that has stuck to it even through the conflagration.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, again.

_Oh little one_ , the wind seems to whisper back, a warm breeze lifting the hem of her nightshirt and caressing at her cheeks, _you didn't mean it. You didn't know. And now, you know better. I can see it in your heart._

Something inside of her stirs along with the rising air. A distinct feeling that she’s not imagining the words, or filling them in herself. That she’s not alone, here by the tree’s remains.

Rising to her feet, the bead of resin clutched in one hand, and her plush companion in the other, Elisabet swallows nervously, craning her neck and peering into the darkness.

"Wh-who’s there???"

The breeze dies with such abruptness that she wonders, for a moment, how she ever mistook it for an ordinary gust of wind. In the stillness, she can hear the voice again, now that she's focusing on it.

_Little one, can you... hear me?_

Yes... there are _definitely_ words; warm and gentle, and full of curiosity. Full of _hope_.

Clutching Barnaby a little tighter, she nods, hesitantly; Mama has always told her to be wary of strangers. To use her judgement when talking to them, because not everyone has her best interests at heart.

Whether or not the same rules apply to disembodied voices, speaking to her outside in the night? She isn’t really sure.

"I can hear you... but I can't see you... where are you?"

There’s another pause, filled only with the gentle night-sounds of chirping crickets and the distant sigh of wind through leaves. From somewhere out among the trees beyond the barnyard’s edge, an owl lets out a long, mournful call.

_You... will not see me as I am now, child._

Now there's something new in the voice; regret. Pain. It lowers her guard a bit, and she frowns.

"You sound sad. Are you ok?"

Again, the breeze ruffles her hair, warm and reassuring. It’s at odds with the loneliness in the speaker’s tone.

_Yes. It is only that..._ _I have been alone for a many years, little one. You are the first to hear my voice in a very long time, indeed._

Elisabet considers this for a moment, rolling the bead of resin between her fingers. She doesn’t _like_ that the voice is lonely; no one should be lonely, in her opinion. Least of all someone with such warmth and kindness in them.

"I could be your friend?” She offers, finally, smiling with just a touch of shy hesitation. “Then you wouldn't have to be alone."

And, honestly, she’s a little bit short on friends, herself. It would be nice to have someone to talk to when school lets out, and the other children hurry away in little gaggles and knots, leaving her very much alone.

This time, there’s a stirring in the dirt at her feet, and abruptly, a green stalk pushes its way out of the earth, budding and blossoming into a sky-blue flower as it rises.

_I think that I would like that. Very much. What are you called, child?_

Crouching to cup a hand around the flower, she studies it wonderingly, taking care not to damage the delicate petals as she strokes them.

“I’m Elisabet. What’s your name?”

_I am GAIA._

Aha! The little smile breaks into a full-fledged grin, at that; now, the voice has a name. Now, they’re not strangers, anymore.

"GAIA... that's a pretty name. And you have a pretty voice. It sounds like flowers and sunshine."

There’s a chuckle at that. The wind ruffles lightly at her hair again, tousling it affectionately.

_I am... a spirit of life itself. All of these things and more fall within the domain of my care._

A spirit of life... 

Giving Barnaby another squeeze, and squishing her eyebrows together, she calls up the memory of her mother’s admonition from the morning’s catastrophe, and its aftermath.

“Mama says... that I should serve life, not death. She says... ‘being smart will count for nothing if you don’t make the world better.’“

For a long moment, the spirit doesn’t answer. When she does, there’s a curious, halting note to her voice. 

_And... is that what_ **_you_ ** _want, Elisabet?_

Slowly, turning the notion over and over in her mind, she nods.

“I think so... I want...”

Beyond just the shame of a lesson learned the hard way, and the desire to make things up to a disappointed parent, there’s... something else. Something that’s always been there, with every fallen log she’s poked around under, every shape she’s found in the clouds on a summer’s day, and every birdsong that she’s listened to intently, out in the stillness of the woods surrounding the ranch. Every twist in her stomach as she’s asked her mother questions about the news stories that the radio and the television deliver, and every time her mother has sunk her teeth into her lip, stumbling on words and doing her utmost to hide her own worry and pain as she answers.

“I _do_ want to make things better. Lots of people are sad. And lots of plants and animals are sad and sick and dying, too. I want to make it better, if I can do that. I want to _help_.”

She can sense GAIA’s approval, even without the pleasure in her tone. And the spirit’s approval _heartens_ her in a way that she doesn’t expect; she feels almost as if she’s glowing from within.

_Then take my blessing, dearest one, along with my friendship. We will help,_ **_together,_ ** _for as long as our spirits align._

There’s a bloom of warmth in the center of her forehead, and a feeling almost like a light kiss being pressed to her brow. Instinctively, she closes her eyes, basking in the sensation. Taking note of the image that seems to flow into her mind; a symbol not unlike a sprouting seed, reaching up out of the earth, and beginning to unfurl leaves from its top.

When she opens her eyes again, she’s back in her bed, the blanket tucked around her shoulders, and the first rays of sunrise beginning to stream through the attic window. 

And the hand that had been curled around the flower head and the bead of resin is now clutching a chunk of polished amber, larger than the size of her fist. Suspended inside are the petals of an azure blossom.

Snatching up Barnaby from his place on the pillow beside her and closing her hand resolutely around the chunk of amber, she kicks off the covers, and heads for the stairs, and the box of crayons left strewn across the coffee table, below.

She _knows_ what she has to do next.

\--

The fact that she's been allowed to sleep this late is a matter of great concern to Rachel.

The fact that the house is relatively quiet is another.

Setting her phone back on the nightstand and pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, she heaves a sigh.

_Uh oh... when she's this quiet, something's probably being taken apart. I'd better go see what trouble she's gotten up to, now._

To her surprise, it's neither of them; Elisabet is seated on the floor just in front of the couch, scribbling diligently away at a piece of paper snatched from her office printer with a green crayon. Barnaby is, as always, perched on the edge of the coffee table, just at his mistress's elbow. And set beside him is a chunk of something yellowish that looks... a lot like a fist-sized ball of amber.

Although the odds of it actually being genuine are almost zero.

Threading her way carefully around the couch, she plants a kiss on the crown of her daughter's head.

"We're awfully busy this morning, aren't we?"

Elisabet beams up at her in that heart-melting way of hers, nodding eagerly.

"Mmmhmm. I made a new friend last night. She gave me this-"

Reaching out with the tip of the crayon, she taps at the chunk of amber material.

"-and now I have to make it into this."

The crayon is returned carefully to the box before she picks up her artwork, displaying a series of geometric shapes that seem to suggest a seed breaking through the surface of the earth, clumsily rendered in green wax and a childish hand.

Trying to suppress a smile, Rachel nods solemnly; this is a new game. And it's one that she's probably going to have to help with; the yellow material looks far too rigid to be shaped with anything but the sort of tools she doesn't want to see in the hands of a six year old.

"Very nice. Now what?"

A little frown creases her brow at that, and she hums thoughtfully to herself.

"Ummmm... I dunno. I think..."

She picks up the drawing in one hand. Sets it back down. Scoops up the yellow chunk. Weighs it in her hand, a pensive look on her face.

"I think I..."

Setting the amber chunk in the center of the design, and moving it left, right, and then left again, until apparently satisfied, she scoops both paper and gem into her hands, cradling it between her hands, and giving it a look of intensity that's almost comical on her little face.

And then, abruptly, the entire thing bursts into flame.

Rachel jerks back in alarm, automatically letting out a venomous hiss at the perceived threat. A few little puffs of noxious smoke stream from her nostrils.

" _What_!? Elisabet-!!!"

But her daughter seems completely unconcerned by the small inferno raging in her palms. Instead, she stares into the golden flames with a look of intense concentration on her little face, nodding to herself. Her lips move soundlessly in shapes that Rachel can’t place in any of the languages she knows.

As quickly as it starts, the fire burns out. To her continuing surprise there's no ash or char on the table. Not even a flake of it. And Elisabet's hands are completely unscathed. Clutched between them is the chunk of amber. Only...

Only it's not a chunk, anymore. The gem has stretched and flowed into the shape drawn on the paper; the sprouting seed, surrounded by its hemisphere of earth. There's even a loop at the top through which a chain or strand of twine can be threaded; an amulet of some sort.

Beaming, she holds it out for inspection.

"There! See? I did it."

Rachel has... no idea what to say to that. It's all just too much to process. Especially in the wake of the pine tree, yesterday morning.

"You, uhh..."

Raising a hand and calling on her own internal reserves of power, she weaves a scanning spell into being with a few murmured arcane words, and a quick twist of her right hand.

"You sure did."

It's magical, all right; both the amulet and the girl herself are ablaze with power. But... it's not like any sort of power that she's ever encountered; it's almost druidic in nature, green and wild, and bursting with life essence. And yet... there's something else to it, too. Something with a deeper element, almost like a Warlock's bond with their patron.

Almost, but... not quite.

Stepping back around the coffee table and taking a seat on the couch, she reaches out to ruffle her daughter's hair.

"Why don't you tell me a little more about this friend of yours?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elisabet is a Nature Cleric! GAIA is her patron deity.


	4. Chapter 4

The recording, when Aloy’s Focus finishes reconstructing it, shows a weary group, seated around a campfire, their gear and equipment spread about them in various states of disassembly, all of it dripping wet. All of _them_ dripping wet.

But despite their battered, exhausted state, their spirits seem to be high. Laughing and joking amongst themselves, they’ve gathered rations, and are roasting them over the fire, speared on sticks, arrows, and weapons. 

“So, for your money,” says Travis, leaning back against the rock he seems to have claimed to dry his armor, “what’s the worst place to take a wound? No particular criteria; annoying, painful, horrifyin’ to think about... all of the above. Just give me somethin’. Anyone? Sam?”

It only takes Samina a moment of thinking to respond.

“It’s most assuredly the dominant hand,” she says, gesturing with her stick, and nearly slapping Margo, seated next to her, across the face with the slice of bell pepper speared on its end, “you simply _can’t_ get anything done when your hand is mummified in bandages.”

Impishly, Margo snatches the offending pepper slice from the end of the stick and crunches it down in a few quick bites, prompting a face of mock-outrage from Samina.

“ _Either_ hand, really. Take just _one_ away, and you’ve only got half a set of tools! Bummer.”

Patrick chimes in next, without lifting his eyes from the spellbook stretched across his lap.

“Eyes. The horror of the idea aside, it’s impossible to read with damaged eyes. Convalescence would be incredibly boring.”

There’s a group-wide wince at that. A couple of murmurs of “Oooooh...” The large, gray-furred creature sitting with its head in Charles’ lap even lets out a snort. He gives its head a stroke, scratching behind the ears and under its long snout, before chiming in with his own answer.

“Gut wounds are bad. If you can’t get magical healing or equivalent surgery in time, that’s a slow, painful death.”

There are a few curled noses at that suggestion, and more than one hand clutches at a (thankfully currently undamaged) stomach. Wrapping an arm around her knee, Ayomide waves her mechanical fingers in the direction of the still-focused Wizard, shooting Charles a little glance as she does.

“Cheerful thought, that. I agree with Patrick; the eyes. I’ve lost limbs. But the thought of damage to my eyes? That unsettles me.”

Shifting his back against the stone, Travis clears his throat.

“I was thinkin’-“

From across the fire, someone that the recording doesn’t quite catch in its view lets out a snort.

“We all know what _you_ were thinking, Trav.”

A ripple of laughter passes around the circle, and he waves it off, smirking to himself.

“Nah, nah, nah. I’m with Sam ‘n Margo, actually; it’s the hand.”

There’s a moment of silence at that, as the group processes the unexpected answer. Travis glances around the circle, taking in the baffled expressions on all of their faces, his customary hyena-smile beginning to bloom across his face. Finally, his grin breaks, and he spits out the punchline in a gleeful staccato. 

“Because-then-you-can’t-use-it-to-“

The others immediately begin to shout over him with playful exclamations of disgust. One of them tosses something in his direction, and he fends it off with a hand, laughing. As the chaos settles, he turns toward Elisabet, seated on his right, giving her a playful nudge in the shoulder.

“How about you, Lizzy? Worst place to take a wound?”

Taking a moment to spin the sausage she has speared on the end of a long stick so that the other side begins to brown, she considers the question, clicking her teeth together thoughtfully.

“Mmmm... bottom of the foot.”

That gets some additional winces and cries from the party, and she nods sagely, turning the stick over again.

“It pulls like _hell_ when you walk. And we don’t get too many chances to sit down.”

She tests the sausage with a fingertip before bringing it in for a hungry bite, speaking around the mouthful of meat with an exhausted lack of decorum that Aloy is only too familiar with.

“Speaking of which, I’m _beat_. I went all the way to the Elemental Plane of Water and back during that scrap. Lovely this time of year, but the jetlag... _eesh_. Are we throwing up the Tiny Hut tonight? Or do we have the strength for a teleport?”

Finally pulling his gaze from his spellbook, and from the small triangle of objects laid out at his feet (if she squints, Aloy thinks that she can make out... a spoon, a small, polished stone, and an archway, carved from something pale in color,) Patrick hums, putting on an enigmatic little smile.

“I have something better in mind, actually.”

Behind him, with a noise almost like fabric tearing, a thin line of light appears in the air, fanning out into a doorway, to cries of surprise and alarm from the others. The smile only widens as he rises to his feet, sweeping both hands toward the portal, and bows at the waist.

“Welcome home, my friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this is Mordenkainen's Magnificent Mansion.
> 
> Or... Brochard-Klein's Beautiful Bungalow...


	5. Chapter 5

Patrick is the first to discover what she's up to.

And it goes about as well as she expects.

"Would you like to explain," he asks tightly, as she turns the egg over in the nest of coals she's set up for it with a pair of glassblower's tongs, "why the enemy's spawn is currently incubating in your kiln?"

Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, Elisabet finishes the turn, setting down the tongs with a shrug.

"What else was I supposed to do?"

It's a weak argument, and they both know it, judging by the down-the-nose look that he throws her way.

"Let it cool. Leave it. Surely you're smarter than this."

Her hackles rise automatically at the challenge, and she shakes her head vehemently, focusing on pulling off her gloves.

"And let it die? No. Absolutely not."

There's a loud thump as he slams his spellbook down on the workbench, and it takes all of her self-control not to flinch at both the noise, and the anger in his voice.

"It's a monstrosity!"

That strikes a nerve, and she raises her own voice, drawing her shoulders together and baring her teeth in a snarl.

"It's an egg!"

For a moment, they glare at each other, stiff with pride, neither willing to back down. When Patrick finally breaks the silence, his voice is quiet and stingingly cold.

"That is it, isn't it? You've always been strange when it comes to eggs."

It's such a wholly unexpected thing to say that she does flinch this time.

"I'm not-"

He cuts her off with a sharp snort, thumping a fist against the cover of his spellbook to punctuate his assertion. The sound makes her flinch again, to her chagrin.

"You are. Don't deny it. Not after that debacle with Abyssearl and the dragon's egg. You remember that one, don't you? Or did the near-death experience drive it from your mind?"

It's not something she can deny; especially not after he'd been the one to retrieve her in the aftermath, and to clean up the mess that the incident had left.

Grinding her teeth together, she studies the tips of her gloves, avoiding his eyes, picking at a loose thread in the stitching of one of the seams.

Well... what now, Lis? You knew this would come up, sometime. You might as well be honest about it.  
Patrick clears his throat impatiently, and, tossing the gloves down on the hearth, she sighs tersely through her nose.

"All right. Fine. But this stays between us."

Spinning on her heel, she reaches for the hem of her shirt, and, in a swift motion, yanks it off over her head.

Admittedly, the strangled curse and sudden scuff of shoes on the floor as he hastily turns his back does give her a bit of vindictive satisfaction, after their clash.

For a moment or two, anyway... then, his damnable gentlemanly honor starts to wear on her.

"Pat," she groans, "come on. It's my back. You've seen most of my back before, and in worse shape than this, too."

It takes him yet more time to pluck up the courage to turn around. But she hears the gasp, when he does. Feels, faintly, the ghostly touch of fingers against the patch of verdant scales lining her spine, from shoulder blades to solar plexus.

"How... long has this been here?"

Without thinking, she raises her own hand to the cluster positioned over her heart, running a fingertip around their scalloped edges. The ones girdling her sides, covering the spaces between her ribs, he can likely see.

"Since birth? I've always had them. They're a gift from my great-great-great grandfather. I've met him once or twice. He's a massive tool. Really a piece of work. But... that's to be expected from an Ancient Green."

The touch falters at that. She can almost hear the gears in his head turning as he processes the implications of it.

"Excuse me, from a...?"

Now, she cranes her neck to grin at him over her shoulder, arching an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Ssthisak the Deceiver? My great-great-great grandmother was one of the ones he... 'deceived.' My mother was able to wake up the latent magic and make it work for her. I wasn't as lucky. It's still latent. Does come with some nice perks, though. You know how I skated right through that brawl with the otyugh without catching anything from it? Yeah. Thanks, Granddad."

Patrick drums his fingers thoughtfully against the scales (in a way that makes her want to squirm ticklishly) as he lets out a little two-tome hum of acceptance, flicking his eyes back and forth between the patches of green, and his spellbook, still lying open on the bench beside the mess of her spell components and tools.

"Is... this why my Dragon's Breath spell-"

She almost laughs out loud at the immediate leap that his mind makes to inquiry; it's a question she's ponder herself, from time to time, in the aftermath of battle.

"-only comes out as poison gas when you tag me with it? I think so. Can't be sure, though."

Wrestling the shirt back over her head, and settling everything into place again, she picks up her gloves, running them through her hands over and over again as she speaks.

"No, you asked me why I was weird about eggs. I gave you my answer. This one... it hasn't even been born, yet. It deserves a chance. And... who knows? Maybe we'll learn something about how Calderex works by studying it. The way it grows, what it does... it's as much an experiment as it is an act of mercy."

For a long moment, Patrick says nothing, watching her fidget nervously with the gloves, stone-faced. Then, tightening his lips in grim acceptance, he heaves a terse sigh.

"I certainly hope you know what you're doing."

Slapping the gloves against her open palm, Elisabet lets out a humorless chuckle.

"Yeah. Me, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While it does not grant them Resistance to Poison Damage, Aloy and Elisabet's ancestry does grant them some resistance to toxins and disease.
> 
> Most notably, Aloy can touch Corruption without becoming sickened by it, as other people are. She just feels the burn.


End file.
